


The Cellist

by EveSpring



Series: Let Your Arrow Fly [6]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Barton Feels, Clint Needs a Hug, Clint is hurting, Dealing with Phil's death is hard, M/M, POV Clint Barton, Phil is gone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2018-12-11 18:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11720211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EveSpring/pseuds/EveSpring
Summary: When Phil died during Loki's attack on the Helicarrier, Clint blamed himself.  So did a lot of other people.  A lot happened in the time while everyone thought he was dead, including Clint having to come to terms with his role in what happened, and what wasn't his fault.  There was a funeral, and so much happened.This story happens after the events of the Avengers movie, but before Repercussions of Survival.There are spoilers for Avengers.





	1. Immediate Fallout

The day the Chitauri attacked would forever grace the history books under the name of ‘The Battle of New York’. This was a misnomer because the battle hadn’t only been for New York, but for the world; it had just started in New York, and the Avengers had just managed to stop it before it had spread further than that. But New York had only been a starting point, nowhere near the end game for Loki. The Asgardian’s end game had always been the world.

Clint Barton knew this because he’d been a part of it. Not just a part of it, but he had helped Loki get what he needed to launch the damn attack before Nat had ‘recalibrated’ his head and brought him back to his senses and under his own control, such that it was. 

Hawkeye, who was notorious for his refusal to obey orders without question, had betrayed every person he cared about, friends, family, his lover, all of them, because a fucking alien had touched him with a stick and told him to. And Clint had listened, he had obeyed, because he had _wanted_ to. Because that alien bastard had carved out his head and heart and had left him eager to obey. 

He could still feel that cold, bleak mind in his, especially when he was almost asleep. He could hear the promises and feel the pain when he tried to disobey. He had nightmares when he slept, which was as rarely as possible, about shooting the director in the chest, about shutting down one of the engines of the helicarrier, about sharing so many secrets with an alien terrorist. And when he was awake, he had to deal with the consequences of what he'd done. 

Many agents within the organization muttered just behind his back, saying that he hadn't been punished. Some of them didn’t even bother to avoid being overheard. But he was punished. Oh god, he was punished. Not by SHIELD or the government, not by the Avengers or anyone from Asgard. He was punished by the universe itself. Because the most important person in it had died because of him. Because that alien asshole had killed Phil Coulson, and Clint couldn't even fucking grieve for him. 

It was his fault; Phil was dead because of him. There were some people who didn't blame him, who told him it wasn't his fault. He knew better than to believe him. 

Clint hadn't even cried. How could he? He'd done this; he refused to allow himself the reprieve of tears. 

Instead, he bore his punishment quietly. The man who had caroused and flirted in the hallways of SHIELD was gone, dead along with the man he'd loved. In his place was a far more quiet, solemn agent. He did as he was ordered, and he never argued. More than one temporary handler put him through the wringer, risking the asset and the op, but Barton never complained, officially or otherwise. 

Natasha tried to help him, but he shut down at the mere mention of Phil Coulson. He saw a therapist, to whom he spoke about Loki, because he was told he had to. But he never mentioned his dead handler. From time to time, an agent would notice him hesitating as he walked past the dark office where he had reported to for years. Or glancing over toward Phil’s favorite seat in the cafeteria, but he never said a word, he never responded to inquiries about the man. The name was a sure fire way to end a conversation with him, or to find Barton’s fist in your face if you didn’t drop it. 

Sometimes one of the Avengers would come sit with him and talk. It was the only time the archer seemed to really come alive, when one of the band of heroes sought him out to visit, but even then his smiles were too tight, and there was something in those sharp green eyes that didn't quite fit. 

Because at the end of every day, Clint was still alone with his guilt and his grief. At the end of the day, he knew there was absolutely nothing he could do to bring Phil back. His life had ended the day the Chitauri had come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter here is a little bit short. I'll make up for it in the second, I promise. But need to set the scene first!


	2. Pay Tribute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of course, Phil has to have a funeral. Not for Phil, exactly, but for his family; because Phil asked Clint to make sure it happened and because Clint couldn't not honor Phil the only way he can. Agent Coulson, a legend within SHIELD, has quite the turnout. This is the first time that Clint has ever seen or met any of Phil's family, and they aren't exactly what he was expecting, though he wasn't sure what exactly he did expect.

When you have worked closely with someone for a long time, certain things were inevitably discussed, and specific requests eventually got made. When it was a dangerous line of work you shared, these things were often making sure dog tags and jewelry got home to your partner’s family, that a proper funeral was given for the family, that a partner makes sure that everything went smoothly if the worst happened. 

Clint could remember when Phil had finally brought it up, his voice as soft and quiet as it always was after a particularly messy op. There had been no preamble, no assurance that it was 'just in case,' because Clint and Phil didn’t pull that sort of bullshit on each other. Phil had just walked up to stand next to him as the plane came in to land and pick them up, “My family deserves to have a proper funeral if it comes to it.”

The statement had been more than a little incongruous with the moment; they hadn't come all that close to dying. Or at least _Phil_ hadn't. There'd been a moment when Clint had thought himself a goner before Nat had shown up out of nowhere. His voice had been hoarse when he had agreed, “They'll get one.”

It had been years since that day, but Clint had never forgotten the simple request that Phil’s family get a funeral so they could say goodbye. After the Battle of New York, when the dust had settled and shawarma had been eaten, Clint had considered Phil’s request. There had never been a doubt that he would do as Phil had asked, he would, but there was a lot of open space in the mission, and Clint really had never liked going into an op unprepared. 

Still, he had done his research and gone head to head with Fury about having the damn funeral, not taking no for an answer. In the end, he had been forced to have the funeral closed casket. The damage was too much, Fury had said with such a sadness that Clint hadn't questioned the decision. Instead, he'd picked a quiet, unassuming but handsome casket, and matched the rest of everything to it. 

And he'd be damned if Phil wasn't honored in true marine fashion; he'd picked the gunmen himself to send him off with a proper salute.

Everyone was there. Fury, Nat, the Avengers, Miss Potts (Phil had liked the red haired woman, and respected how competently she had managed her boss), hell half of SHIELD had shown up to send off the legendary Agent Coulson. Hill, Sitwell, and a few others Clint and Phil had worked closely with over the years stood with him and Nat around the casket, opposite Phil’s family. 

His mother and grandmother stood together, Mrs. Coulson cried with dignity; not a whole lot of people could do that, but the woman held her head up, looking over at all of them as though to challenge them to do better than she could. Her mother stood silently behind her, hand on her daughter’s shoulder, eyes soft with grief through the entirety of the rites. 

In lieu of a single eulogy, Clint had made space and time for anyone to speak a memory or fact about Phil Coulson. And so many people stepped forward to speak. From Hill’s appreciative, “He always got his paperwork in on time, and even Barton’s!” To Fury’s, “He was the best damn man I've ever known.” When Nat stepped forward, Clint blinked, her eyes held tears, and Clint ducked his head down as she spoke to hide his own eyes, “Phil Coulson rescued me. He and Barton taught me what it was to be human, and I will always love him for that. Like the Director said, he was the best man I've ever known.”

Sitwell’s quiet, “I'll never understand his love for MRE’s and crap gas station doughnuts. The man drank coffee that no one else would dare touch, and that was only the beginning of his bravery,” sent Clint over the edge. He struggled to stay quiet; how did Mrs. Coulson manage it? But his shoulders trembled with the effort. He waited for the others to go, letting Cap and Stark say their pieces about the man that Clint had loved for the last five years. No, it had been longer. Much longer. But Phil had known for the last five years.

Then Clint took a single step forward, eyes on the casket, not the crowd. He wasn't speaking for Phil’s family, or for the Agents and Avengers gathered here. This was for Phil. This was all for Phil. “To say that Phil Coulson was the best man I've ever known just isn't enough. He was more than that.” The smile that quirked Clint's lips upward was somber and nostalgic, “When I met Phil, I was little more than feral, and it took him shooting me to make me even listen. But he brought me in. And when I struggled,” because [i]yes[/i] he had struggled, “He took the time and taught me. He gave me my best friend, and taught me what family was actually supposed to be.” 

And I killed you, Phil. I brought evil on to the helicarrier and left him to murder the one person I don't know how to live without. 

“I trusted Phil Coulson. Without condition. He made us all better. Made us all work harder. He made us our best. So ‘best’ doesn't even come close to describing him. But it's the only word we have. Phil, you're better than the best.” His voice cracked, but he didn't care. Everyone knew that assets and their handlers tended to be close, and he and Phil had worked together for over a decade. 

A lot of people had watched him while he spoke. Some with sympathy, some with torn expressions, knowing what he had done and trying to forgive him. Some didn't blame him, and some hated him. A few of his fellow agents pinned him with glares he didn't, couldn't, meet because they said what he already knew: ‘this is your fault, Clint Barton. You killed this better than best man.’ 

Phil's mother had been looking at him while he spoke, but she'd looked at each person who had spoken. The look that Clint found the most unsettling was that of Phil’s grandmother. That gaze just seemed to pierce beyond the veil of ‘I’m sad because my handler died’ into the reality of ‘I’m a complete wreck because the love of my life was murdered because of me’ with the sort of ease that Phil had shown. Well, good to know where he’d gotten that particular fine quality from… But it made Clint uneasy. It made him wonder if the woman suspected his part in her grandson’s death if she recognized just how deep Clint’s sorrow and misery went. He found himself fidgeting, playing with the finger tab that he carried with him everywhere (Phil had given it to him one year for Christmas), and forced his hands to be still as the pastor completed the ceremony and everyone present took a turn throwing a handful of soil (not just dirt, not for Phil; this was soil, so that beautiful things could grow from it) onto the casket after it was lowered into the grave.

Phil’s grave. 

The thought took the wind out of him as it drove home the knowledge that Phil wouldn’t be in the cafeteria anymore. It wouldn’t be Phil’s voice calling him to report in over the comms. He wouldn’t be home to open the door and pull him inside when Clint stopped by to ‘go over my AAR’. Clint bent forward with what might have sounded like a sigh to anyone else, but Natasha knew better. She knew the sob for what it was, but then Natasha knew what Phil had been to Clint. Her hand on his shoulder, just a feather light touch, once again grounded him and he looked up to her, eyes holding tears he couldn’t afford to shed here and now, to see her nod. That gesture told him what he needed; get it together, get through this. This is for Phil, what he asked for, the only thing he had ever asked for. Clint would give this to him, he would carve his heart out of his chest if Phil asked, and it felt like he was doing just that right now.

Who would have known that losing someone, losing the person you loved more than life, more than breath, could make your whole body hurt, could make your skin feel like it was on wrong, too tight in some places and too loose in others. His ribs ached; from holding his breath in order to not cry. His legs shook with the effort to stay standing after each blow that had come in the form of words from those who had cared about Phil. Not as much as Clint had. Clint had loved Phil completely, and well, and no one could even know. His family would speak about poor Audrey, how she must be grieving, and they would never know. The name of the person who loved Phil with body, mind, and soul wasn’t named Audrey. He was named Clint, and he had had his heart taken from him. There was a Phil shaped hole in his life that he didn’t want to fill. 

Once the ceremony was over, the agents left, at first a few at a time, in small groups, consoling each other quietly, some walking away alone, silent and telling themselves that the loss would hurt less as time passed. Hill stayed until Fury turned to walk away, both silent, respectful. Neither looked back. Eventually, the Avengers left. Thor and Bruce left with their heads bent. Cap and Stark, speaking in low tones, maybe sharing stories. Natasha’s voice almost startled Clint when she finally spoke quietly to him, “I’ll go get the car.” The nod he gave her seemed to be enough of an answer for Natasha, because she kissed him on the temple and then she was off to go get the car so they could go. 

The apartment wasn’t home. Phil’s place was home, because that’s where Phil was. Had been. Swallowing back another sob, Clint reached up to wipe a hand down his face, looking up and giving another slight start because there was Phil’s grandmother, standing right there in front of him. And holy shit, who would ever have guessed that an elderly woman such as herself could move so damn quick and silently?? Not Clint! Granted, she wasn’t in a walker or anything, but holy hell, he hadn’t been expecting to see her there. His eyes were wide when she nodded to him, “You’re Clint.”

And what else could Clint do but nod and manage to mumble out a, “Yes, ma’am.”? 

The older woman gave a sharp nod, and then took Clint’s hand, pressing something into it and closing his fingers around him, “Phil spoke of you, he said you were a good man. These need to go to the person who loved him, Agent Barton. I trust that you’ll see that they get there.”

Dog tags. She was handing him Phil’s dog tags, and Clint made a quiet keening sound at the thought. She wanted them to go to… She hadn’t said Audrey, though. To the person who loved him. Everyone else, Hill, the other agents, Sitwell, he imagined the rest of Phil’s family, they all thought that ‘the person who loved him’ was Audrey, but it wasn’t. It was Clint. It was him. He gave a head-jarring nod, “Yes ma’am. I’ll get them to where they need to go. I… I’m so sorry. About Phil. He was…”

She smiled at him. She’d just buried her grandson, and she gave him a smile, albeit a sad one, “Better than best. Yes, he was.”

Nat returning with the car saved him from breaking down in front of Phil’s grandmother. Natasha drove him to his apartment; it wasn’t home, but it was familiar at least. She left him with a cup of soup from a can in his hand and Phil’s dog tags in his pocket. He drank the soup without tasting it, and then went to his bed.

Phil had never slept here, Clint had always preferred to go to Phil’s place. It was cozier there and felt more like a home than a crash pad. But Clint climbed into bed, pulling the dog tags out and curled himself around them. And finally, after what seemed like forever, he cried. It was ugly, and it was uncontrolled, so unlike the man he had loved, and loved still. When there were no more tears, after Clint had cried himself empty and hollow, he fell asleep, still clutching them to his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all liked this one! As always, if you did like it, kudos and comments are always appreciated. ^_^


	3. Agent Sitwell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agent Sitwell catches Clint at the range not so long after the funeral and asks about the Cellist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I feel like I owe you all a huge, huge, huge apology. This chapter is _so_ overdue... There are reasons for it, of course. Real life came in like a hurricane and wrecked my calm. Everything is fine here, but I found myself unable to write for a few weeks. The worst part is that I had this chapter mostly written (it's shorter, but it's not meant to be a long chapter. Neither is the next one, really) when everything just sort of blew up.
> 
> I'm hoping that after this little hiatus I'll be able to get this fic back on track. ^_^ Thanks for all of your patience!
> 
> Thank you to Arjay for the beta read!

_Thwip. Thwip. Thwip._

There were very, very few people who could stand next to Hawkeye for any real length of time on the range. Sure, some people would throw their entire magazine at their target while he stood, silently, calmly, steadily sending his arrows to pierce the middle of his target, each and every time, sometimes breaking an arrow with another, but usually clustering them into a thick brace of carbon shafts to stand out from the bullseye. The problem was that no matter what happened around him, the steady sound of his bowstring continuing to hum through it drove most people to leave and head further down the range, away from the too-calm thrum of Clint and his bow.

Agent Coulson had been able to stand next to Hawkeye and fire his gun for hours.

Agent Sitwell had been training in the next stall for 45 minutes now, and Clint had to admit that he was impressed. That took some strength of will and stamina to do. But eventually, Clint used up the two dozen arrows he’d brought from the armory, leaving them broken or in need of new points. He cleaned up after himself, leaving no sign that he had destroyed or damaged 24 arrows, and then left to return the used arrows to the armory, those that just needed new points could be repaired, the rest would be recycled. 

“Agent Barton?” 

Clint should have known better. Sitwell wasn’t one to just silently keep you company for the better part of an hour without a reason beyond the fact that maybe you looked like you needed the companionship. No, Sitwell’s presence had meant that the man wanted something. It could be just a sign off on something, like another new handler (He’d already had three since Phil, and he had no intention of going easy on anyone, even Sitwell.) or it could be another lecture about talking to the therapist SHIELD was forcing him to see. Either way, it wasn’t anything Clint cared to hear. Still, he turned to look back at Sitwell, frowning, “Yeah?” No ‘sir’, not for anyone, not anymore. Phil had earned it, the rest, not so much.

Sitwell looked seriously uncomfortable. Just what was the man looking to talk about here? “Agent Barton, I was hoping I could ask you a question.” 

Clint frowned, turning to face the other agent, nodding. “Sure, Agent Sitwell. What do you need?” He was suspicious, but then, he would have been suspicious under any circumstances. He and Sitwell knew each other, but it was in passing; their only real connection had been Phil, both with closer-than-usual ties to the man, if in entirely different ways. Which meant this, whatever it was, this question, would be Phil Coulson related. That was not a most welcome situation, and any question Agent Sitwell had to ask would be unwanted and difficult for Clint. 

Jasper Sitwell actually hesitated, and that was unsettling. It was unsettling the way it was to hear Tony Stark nearly break into tears, or to hear Captain America curse, or to see Nat laugh and let it crinkle her eyes with emotion. Clint found himself shifting, trying not to fidget under the scrutiny and discomfort of Agent Sitwell. Finally, Sitwell seemed to find his tongue, and spoke without a smile, entirely serious, “I know that you and Agent Coulson were close. And I was wondering if… Are you in touch… Do you know how she’s doing? I wouldn’t want to reach out myself, I don’t know her, but I thought that perhaps you or Agent Romanov might have. Or at least know how she’s dealing with...it.”

_It._ Phil’s death. _She._ Audrey.

Right. Because Phil’s girlfriend in Canada would probably be half out of her mind with grief. Of course Audrey would be miserable right now. Clint was the closest thing to an Audrey that actually existed. Clint was miserable and half out of his mind with grief. He fought to pull himself out of bed in the mornings and struggled to make it through each day. So Clint gave a small nod before sighing, “She’s… It’s not good, Agent Sitwell. But I think there’d be more to be worried about if she were fine, don’t you? She’s in turns dealing with the reality of it and a wreck over it. They say time heals, though, so maybe things’ll get better for her as time goes on. Maybe it’ll get easier for her.” He shrugged, the motion too loose, his shoulders shifting more than they would have normally had he just been shrugging instead of trying to shoulder the weight of his grief, “I hope she can move on.”  
  
The look Agent Sitwell gave him, eyes just slightly red-rimmed behind his glasses, sadness and understanding mixing with pity for poor Audrey made Clint want to scream. He had never hated the secret of Phil and him more than he did in that single moment; the moment he found himself wanting to shout to the rafters, to the unfeeling clouds, that there was no fucking Audrey, that it was _Clint_ that was a wreck, that it was he who was dealing with the death of the man he loved, the death he had caused and had no right to even grieve! And at the same time, Clint wanted to walk away and find a quiet air duct to curl up in and sob until the tears dried up and left his eyes heavy and scratchy. He had done that a few times since the funeral. It was as though some door in him had finally swung open and allowed the rush of tears to flow out of him, even if he didn’t feel that he had any right to cry over what he’d done, over the loss he had caused himself.

Clint gave Agent Sitwell a tight smile, a sharp nod of his head, and then turned and walked away, wishing he could just head back to the range. Sometimes it helped to just shoot at the targets until his vision blurred and his arms shook too badly to keep the arrows perched on the arrow rest. Sometimes it just made his heart ache more. Most of the time it just left him tired and hollow.

He wondered if that’s how Audrey in Canada would have felt. Yeah, probably it was. For half a moment, Clint pitied the musician before he shook himself with a reminder that she wasn’t real. He was the one that was real, even if he wished he wasn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone, for reading! As always, kudos and comments are awesome!


	4. An Interlude with Jasper Sitwell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint thought that Agent Sitwell had caught on to things that maybe he shouldn't have when they talked just outside the range.
> 
> Maybe he did. 
> 
> This is Jasper Sitwell's point of view, and he's pretty sure something improbable is happening here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late again, I'm sorry. I've got at least one more chapter planned out for this, and I'm gonna try to get it up next weekend. Real life is being a pain. A busy, busy pain.
> 
> Thank you to SaltyCostumer for beta reading for me! <3

Agent Sitwell had found that, under the circumstances, the steady stream of sound could be relaxing. It could even be downright hypnotic. No wonder Phil had often taken the stall next to his asset, able to time his shots with the sound of Clint’s arrows and just losing himself in a world where there was nothing else, just that sound and the sound of his gunfire. 

Jasper was a rather observant sort of man; he was quiet and he kept his cards close to the vest, but then Phil had been similar in those ways. They had both focused on the mission at hand and had put an op first and foremost. Planners and plotters, both of them, and Jasper had found that this had made Phil a great friend. There was an understanding between the two of them. It had been a good friendship, the sort that you could count on one hand in how true and honest it was. It had also been a practical friendship. Because both he and Phil had been practical men. Practical, able to distance themselves when need be, but not insensitive.

With Phil gone, Jasper had taken it upon himself to watch over the assets his friend had brought into SHIELD and had exclusively handled. He hadn't tried to win them over or pull them into his own rotation; they were both Avengers and fully capable of choosing their assignments. Or not choosing, in Barton’s case. He'd gone through handlers in the past, he held the record for it, but he had settled down under Phil's guidance and had become a top rate specialist. He didn’t watch over Romanov and Barton for their sakes, not really, this was for Phil. And maybe a little bit for himself, too. Because Jasper missed Phil. 

There were rumors. This was SHIELD, there were always rumors - intelligence agencies were worse than high schools - but Jasper didn't really believe that Agent Barton was sleeping with Agent Romanov. At least, not anymore. He didn't doubt for a moment that two likely had a history, but he didn't think they were currently an item. Just like he knew better than Phil being asexual or a robot or married to (or involved with) anyone belonging to the Fury family. Phil was quiet, but he and Jasper had been friends, good friends, for too long for Jasper not to know certain things, things Phil had confided in him. Things that Jasper had never, and would never, discuss with anyone else. 

While Barton and Jasper shot, Jasper paid attention. He was good at that; he wasn't quite as good a shot as Barton, but he was good enough (he was Level Seven for a reason), and Barton was easier to read while he was distracted. 

Easier, but still not easy. 

Hawkeye was legendary for a reason. Sniper, melee, undercover…. The man performed at any and all levels. If you could get him to perform, and Phil Coulson had turned the man into a superb asset. Phil had been one hell of a handler in that way. He’d been an even better friend to have on your side because of the patience needed to achieve the results he’d enjoyed with Barton.

But Barton had been on edge since New York. Most of SHIELD attributed his moodiness to Loki having him under his control, but Jasper wasn't entirely sold on that theory. Barton was in turns scathingly furious and worrisomely depressed, though he never gave any indication just who he was angry with or what he felt so sad about. He flicked up and down the stages of grief without ever landing on acceptance. And while it was possible the man had lost someone amongst the civilian casualties, Jasper found it unlikely that he had. That he'd have been able to keep it off SHIELD's radar for all these years. Unless it was right in front of all of them. 

Jasper thought that maybe Clint Barton was grieving for Phil Coulson. Maybe even more than Jasper was. Those two had been strangely close; Phil had been more protective of Barton than any of his other agents, even Romanov. It wouldn't be the first time a handler had befriended an asset. And hell, the way that Barton obeyed Coulson had become a thing of legend in itself, at least among the handlers within SHIELD’s ranks. 

But none of that was what had brought him here today. Or.. It had, but for another reason. Barton might be the closest person in the agency to Phil, and that meant if anyone knew how to reach the cellist, Audrey, that Phil had been dating off and on for years, it would be the archer. Jasper knew how he felt, how torn he was each day when he arrived here and saw the memorial and knew that his best friend had a plaque on it. So then, how must Audrey be feeling?

So it was that when Clint finished (he made a couple dozen arrows last a good long while) Jasper cleaned up his lane and followed him out. “Agent Barton?”

“Yeah?” 

Jasper didn't expect a title, especially not so soon after losing Agent Coulson; Barton had gone out of his way to refuse to call anyone ‘sir’ until Phil had taken him on and…. And Jasper could remember the silence on the line the first time Barton had used the term of respect for Phil. Everyone had been surprised, including Phil. But while everyone else (including himself) had stood in shocked silence, Phil had carried on like nothing had changed. Nothing to dwell on. He had answered Barton's request for permission to fire in his usual crisp, no-nonsense tone reserved for tense missions, and the op had run smooth as silk. Just as Phil had expected. Jasper noticed the lack of title, but he wasn't bothered by that. Hell, it felt right. A ‘sir’ for him now would have made Jasper feel even less comfortable than he already did, would have made him feel compared to Phil, or worse, a replacement, and that would not do.

What he _was_ bothered by was that he could see that Agent Barton was a mess, he could see how much it took to stand there, shoulders back and stiff and acting like nothing was wrong when things so obviously were for the archer. It made Jasper’s heart ache just a little bit more than it already did, to see someone else grieving Phil the same way he was. To know that Phil had been loved so widely, by so many in SHIELD. And so many not in SHIELD, too. Jasper knew that all of the Avengers were grief-stricken, but to _see_ it from one of their own… He was torn between pride in Barton and sympathy, between his professionalism, and his pain.

Barton wouldn't want his pity. He wouldn’t want his sympathy. Jasper was pretty sure he wouldn't even want a kind word. No, what Barton would want, what he would expect here, was nothing. Jasper Sitwell had a reputation for being a cool cucumber, distant and calculating, but his heart went out to Coulson’s family, and for the agents who had so obviously adored him. And that included Clint Barton. And it was damn difficult to give Clint what he wanted and expected today. “Agent Barton, I was hoping I could ask you a question.”

Barton turned to face him, and Jasper made damn well sure to keep his face passive. “Sure, Agent Sitwell. What do you need?”

The easy, simple agreement was….unexpected. Barton rarely took someone at face value, especially something coming from a higher ranking agent. A handler. Because the odds were probably that…. maybe that's what it was, though. Maybe Barton was hoping he wanted Barton for an op. Jasper found himself wishing that's what he was here about for the archer’s sake, but he had come for a reason, and so he answered honestly, but delicately, trying to spare the asset’s feelings. “I know that you and Agent Coulson were close. And I was wondering if… Are you in touch… Do you know how she’s doing? I wouldn’t want to reach out myself, I don’t know her, but I thought that perhaps you or Agent Romanov might have. Or at least know how she’s dealing with...it.”

For a moment, Jasper wondered if Barton were going to forget how to breathe. He could all but watch the man pull himself together, sealing up the cracks in his facade as quickly as anyone, and nearly as well as Phil had been able to do. It was rather impressive, really, Barton was better at it than nearly anyone else. Maybe Romanov was better. And Phil. Phil had been a champion at the putting on and wearing game face. Barton was damn good, and Jasper had to wonder if he’d just naturally picked it up, from his life before SHIELD and from Phil, or if Phil had actively taught him how to do it; because it was almost a beautiful if heartbreaking thing to watch. 

And then, just like that, Agent Barton was sighing and nodding and answering. “She’s… It’s not good, Agent Sitwell. But I think there’d be more to be worried about if she were fine, don’t you? She’s in turns dealing with the reality of it and a wreck over it. They say time heals, though, so maybe things’ll get better for her as time goes on. Maybe it’ll get easier for her. I hope she can move on.”

In that moment, hearing that answer, so intimate and familiar for someone whom the archer could only have barely known, Jasper suspected something. Something outlandish and incredible and unbelievable, but… Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. And this… In a preposterous way, made a certain amount of sense. And as he looked at Clint Barton, his heart ached for the younger man and swelled with feeling. Maybe it was a little bit of pity, and a whole lot of sympathy, and a touch of recognition and understanding. Because Jasper wasn’t unfeeling, not at all; he simply understood the logic of restraint and objectivity, just as Phil had. 

When Barton gave him a nod and left, Jasper didn’t stop him. He had a lot to think about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I really like Jasper. I might have to write more from his point of view; he's interesting. Not the easiest to write, but I like a challenge from time to time. ^_^
> 
> I love comments and kudos!


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